


The Death of Rom-Com

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Cheeky Steve and Bucky, F/M, Multi, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: What happens when the guy you've been fooling around with turns out to be your hot co-worker's best friend? Love Triangle? Pfft. You're not getting off that easily.





	1. It's Porn, Wanda.

“Coffee?”

You look up from your monitor and blink out the afterimage of rounded rectangle shapes and tiny little letters from your eyes. How long you’ve been sitting frozen and hunched over at your desk is unknown, but the crick in your spine tells you it’s at least twenty minutes.

Your co-worker stands over your little cubicle with a steaming mug in his hand. “Hazelnut, right?” He asks.

“Oh perfect! Thanks, Steve.”

He grins back at you and transfers the ceramic over, making sure his fingers touch the top and bottom rims so that you can safely grab the handle. “How’s it goin? Were my mockups alright? Or should we scrap it?”

Taking a sip, you shake your head vigorously, motioning him to come around as you point to your dual monitors. One side boasts the nearly finished version of the sketches and ideas he sent to you earlier today. The other is an enormous screen of code. “Okay, I just need to patch this--” You point to a particularly wonky column and show him its inability to scroll correctly, “-- but otherwise, Steve. It’s fantastic. We’re gonna get a promotion. The big one.”

He laughs, because you say that every time the two of you finish a project together and at this point, it’s just how you punctuate any conversation with him.

“No,” He shakes his head, “Not a promotion. We’re gonna _own_ the company.”

Clenching your fist, you bump his knuckles. “Now you’re speakin’ my language. Pull up a chair, my man. I gotta show you this other thing too.” Your hands rub together eagerly before you clear the clutter from the small space left of your desk. Colorful pens, star-shaped sticky notes, even the iridescent tape dispenser, all tumbling away so he can set his own coffee mug down and join you.

This is how your partnership works: Steve draws the designs and composes the words to fill them. You make them. He checks. You edit. Then the two of you turn the completed website over to your boss and go out for drinks and a game of darts to celebrate.

It’s a small company, but ever since joining it over a year ago, you’ve steadily worked your way into a good routine. At first, Steve was just some guy sitting in an entire other hallway processing data and answering e-mails. But then, maybe fate, destiny, or by silly circumstance, he dropped a notepad sketch of a skyline at dusk and you happened to pick it up on your way out to lunch. It was striking and strangely geometric, with boxed-off sections of light and dark. Overlapping spaces of outlines.

When you found out it was his, you marched straight up to him and demanded that he do something with that talent other than scribble.

You had asked, “Data entry?”

“Someone’s gotta do it, ma’am.” He stuffed the drawing back into his folder. A big man reduced to nervous shaking shoulders and downcast eyes under your inquiry.

“I think you have so much potential! Way more than the guy currently drawing the plans. Can I show you this travesty I’m working on?” You ignored the fact that he had inadvertently stamped a date on you by calling you _ma’am_. Gross.

You didn’t even wait for his answer, pulling up the screenshot on your phone of a terribly designed page. Chaotic arrangements. Sloppy header typeface. Terribly unergonomic scheme. Your rule of thumb is that if a thirteen-year-old child in the 21st century with fair access to the internet cannot make heads or tails out of a website, it’s trash.

Most of the time, Rumlow made trash. You swear the man is half a step away from Comic Sans-ing all your shit. So, you had gone to Coulson and very politely requested an opportunity to work with Steve Rogers.

It’s been bliss ever since.

“So uh—are you doing anything tonight?” Steve calls from your right, where he pushes paper clips around absently with his pointer. He looks ridiculous in that spare chair and you laugh at the way his legs fall off the sides.

“Ah. I’m not sure yet. Wanda wanted to go out but she’s never really on time and … a little flaky. I might just call it an early night and tuck myself into bed with a beer.”

He hums disappointedly and it makes you feel a bit guilty because the poor boy has been trying to get you to go out for a drink for _weeks_. Maybe months. And not in the simple celebratory way you used to do.

It was subtle at first, how Steve would walk side-by-side with you down the hallway. Or how he’d brush up against you while watching you code. Or the way he says “you’re great” and throw his arm over your shoulder when your dart would land on the corked target. Or the shine in his eyes when your beer bottles would clink together, him watching you tip it to your mouth. And it still is subtle, because Steve would never be the kind of obtuse man to plant himself in your life like that by copping a feel or trying to steer you home while you’re drunk.

But he does ask you once every few weeks and every time you turn him down, he pouts a little bit more.

It’s not that you’re uninterested in him—you _are_. He’s handsome (the girls in marketing call him the office eye-candy), sweet (like, brings you coffee on the regular), and a great co-worker (_hello_, Rumlow?). But that’s part of the problem. You are not a fan of shitting where you eat because 1) gross. 2) if anything bad happened, you’d have to go back to working with Rumlow. And, _shit_, you think, _anything but Rumlow._

You’ve been a little bit avoidant lately. He’s probably starting to catch on.

You fix the blazer jacket around your shoulders and smile. The one he returns is glittering and your stomach clenches at the sight. _He’s too fucking good for you_. A quiet buzzing shakes your pocket and you slip your hand in, pulling out the rectangle of your phone.

“Well. I’ll leave you be. Let me know if you need any changes.” You wave to Steve as he retreats and open your new message.

Immediately, sweat condenses on your brow. The picture of six bulging abs and a large hand lifting a dark shirt wicks all the moisture from your mouth and slaps it on your forehead.

Oh, yeah. You also can’t go out with Steve because of _that_. Reaching for the now-cooled off coffee, you take a big swig. Jesus Christ, you think, he is _bad_.

-

_Eight Months Ago_

The egg-white on your cocktail has fizzled out, falling apart into a now-muddy green drink. It’s been forty-five minutes and Pietro has _not_ shown up. You throw the rest of your drink back and slide the empty martini glass across the bar. You wonder why you even try with those twins.

The late text finally appears- Pietro forgot your plans to meet at the bar. An apology. A pet name. You send back _Fuck you! I'm here drinking alone like a leper!_

His response: _You’re the cutest leper, then! _doesn't even warrant a reply.

Before you can even lean back in frustration and reach for your wallet to tab out, something slides into your line of vision.

“Hey.” A man says as he scoots into the stool next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You look up and around. The space is dimly lit, black walls, red shelves, a very subtly gothic vibe. There are _plenty_ of women around who are dressed to impress, but he is strangely alert and focused on you. You are sitting perfectly still in slim ankle dress pants and a button up chevron blouse—work clothes. Even your hair, piled on top of your head screams: _go away_.

“You look lonely.” He’s dressed in an open green flannel with a crinkled tee underneath, ripped jeans, and dark sunglasses perched on top of his head.

Blinking owlishly, you stare at him some more. This guy _has got_ to be messing with you. You stick the tip of your thumb to your chest. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’ll you have?”

_Um. Alone time, maybe?_ You’re still searching over his shoulder as he says this, stubbornly ignorant of your aloof vibe. You look again toward the door, plotting your escape. Is this guy the type of person to chase you down and stuff you in the trunk of his car? You try to smile.

“I’m uh—I'm ab--”

“Honey!”

A third voice cuts in and then suddenly an arm wraps around your shoulder, “Sorry I’m late, babe.”

The arm feels heavier than an arm should, and when you look over to it, you realize it’s made of metal, maybe something else, but it’s a prosthetic—and goddamn is it the nicest prosthetic arm you’ve ever seen. Your head turns to regard the rest of its owner and your heart leaps into your mouth. Steely blue eyes encased in dark lashes. Corners lifted by a wide smile. They are looking lovingly down at you, and they are magnificent.

“Uh.” _Nice job._

“Uh- you—you were waiting on someone?” The stutter is incredibly pathetic when your first suitor realizes the absolute _unit_ the man with his arm around you is. He’s built like a fridge. He’s sturdy like one too, from what you can tell with his side pressed up against your side.

“Yep. Boyfriend. Good to meet you." His eyes crinkle at the edges, but there’s no kindness in that look. “Care to fuck off now?”

And _fuck off_ he does. When the man slinks back to his group of buddies who are all snickering at him, you turn to your timely savior, “Thanks…”

“It looked like you needed some help.” He takes his arm back and puts his bottom into the stool next to you. “Just playing the part—I'll fuck off too in a second.”

You’re still too shocked to mouth off yet as you continue to take in the sight of him at your side. He leans over on his palm, takes a quick look behind your head, and then gives you a wink. “Your man’s turned around. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” You mumble, facing him, “That flannel was straight from the nineties.” And then you pause, feeling your mouth-motor whir to life. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. White shirt. Pressed jeans. Long hair tied back half-way, scruff gracing his jaw. Probably sharp as a knife under that. “You look pretty straight from the nineties too, grunge-boy.”

Beer sprays from where his lips touch the rim of the bottle. He hisses, wiping the dribble from his neck. It takes him another minute of fumbling before all the moisture is off, and you can see the tiniest hint of a blush on his cheeks from where he’s embarrassed himself.

“Where are you from?” You ask mischievously, “A _Grease_ convention?”

“No. I’m from Brooklyn, thanks very much.” He crosses his arms. “Just here visiting.”

“Visiting... this bar?” You motion to the empty space on the other side of him.

“My friend is a crotchety old man who sneezed this evening and thought he was going to die. I’m not wasting a perfectly good night rubbin’ his back.”

“So....” You sing, “You went out to... save dames from creeps?”

“Uh-huh. _Dame_.”

You want to laugh, but the shit-eating grin on his face doesn’t deserve to be encouraged right now. You can tell already he’s a real playboy, so you push the edges of your mouth down and pretend to find a lot of interest in grabbing your purse instead. “Well, mister, thanks for the saving. See you around.” You’re not above picking up a guy in a bar but why not tease him a little more while you’re at it?

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and grabs your blazer off the back of the stool. “It’s James.” He says, “My name.”

“What about Jimbo?”

“Not a chance.”

“Jim-Jam?”

“Not better.”

You smile and slip the sleeves of your jacket over your arms. “Well, _James_, thanks for the saving. Bein’ a dame and all, I sure hate it when a fella doesn’t know his place.”

James’ pink tongue darts out to lick his equally pink lips and he hops off the stool, placing a five under his half-full beer. “Can I walk you to your car?” He asks. “You know—dark night, creeps in alleyways and parking lots... Unless it’s not my place_...dame_.”

You laugh, because it’s barely sunset. But the way he’s looking at you makes you blood rise and leak hot magma right into your tummy. What’s the harm, you think, because he’s from out of town and you’ll never see him again. It’s Friday night.

“No, I suppose it’s not your place.” You pause, watching the disappointed expression on his face. “James--” You pretend to wipe a smudge off the corner of his leather collar, leaning in until it really does look like he’s your boyfriend.

“You’re welcome to come to mine. But no more of this dame business.”

He laughs a joyful noise, tugs his jacket on close to his chest, and follows you out the door.

-

_Holy shit_. How can one person have so much stamina? This guy must be related to the Energizer Bunny. It’s been nearly two hours and he’s propped up against the headboard of your bed, legs spread, pointer finger beckoning you to crawl between them. This is your _third_ (third!) time going at it.

Your hair is pulled up into a bun because you are _so_ sweaty. His own hair is still half down, framing his face, just as wild as he is. Two hours of some of the filthiest talk you’ve ever head, ass-slapping, spit-swapping, hair-pulling, straight-up debauchery.

“This your usual M.O., James, or are you doin’ me a favor?” You ask as your knees nudge him wider apart. Blowing a damp strand from your forehead, you lie down on your stomach and press your mouth to his thigh. “Death by exhaustion.”

“_Sex_haustion,” He laughs, then grunts as your lips finds the blunt head of his cock. “You’re still goin’ too.” He comments. “Jesus, girl. Can I call you next time I’m in town?”

You hum a vibrating warble and he shudders in delight, “Your friend won’t mind?”

“Pfft.” Then, as easily as he dismisses the idea, James runs his hand through your hair, tugs it loose from its knot, and pulls you flush against him. “C’mere.”

There’s something about him that turns you inside out. Easy-going demeanor. Charm and wit. Just fucking gorgeous. It’s a silly little notion from a romanticized one-nighter, but you’re very interested in prolonging the fantasy. You’ll get the best of this, you think, a no-strings attached kind of attachment with someone who makes your body _sing_. You don’t even want to know his last name—and you don’t tell him yours no matter how many times he asks. You want to know nothing about him other than what you can touch and taste and feel.

And there’s quite a lot of him for all of that. Your hands roam his shoulders and arms, your tongue laps at the sweat on his neck, your tummy tightens when his cock flexes against it.

Even if there might be an attachment, the physical distance of him, living in Brooklyn, would nip that foolishness right in the bud.

Against the backdrop soundtrack of the Bay Area traffic and chatter, you wiggle your way on top of James and seal your arrangement with a glide of your hips onto his.

-

On your lunch break, you discreetly scroll through your phone and respond to your part-time lover—a remark about how many crunches he had to do before he sent you the picture. It’s been like this for nearly a year now: flirting, sexting, risqué images and lewd promises to each other. Your hookups have been far and few in-between—just a handful of times. But you stick to what you tell yourself and keep him as far from personal as possible.

From what you know, he could have a girlfriend. You hope he doesn’t because that would be _the worst_. Unless he has a wife _(way_ worse)_. _Kids? Fuck. Sometimes you want to ask, but it never happens. In your mind, James is a hot bar hookup. Period.

But _sometimes_, he starts venturing into stranger territory with you. He wonders what you do for a living. Asks you how your day is going. Tells you he thought about you during a drive. It’s sweet. It makes you bite your lip and rethink your arrangement.

But the far-fetched little fantasy fizzles away and the reality of it always stares back at you: James is not real; he is what your imagination thought up. The only truth you know about him is that he can fuck like it’s an Olympic sport, and he lives _way_ too far. You are an adult woman who has shit to do.

A rustle to your right makes you jump slightly and stuff your phone into your pocket. Wanda plops down into the seat beside you and peeks over before you can put your phone away. “Him again?” She asks with a knowing raise of her eyebrows.

You roll your eyes because she thinks you and James are star-crossed lovers or something, like your life is a romantic comedy and one day he’s just going to show up at your door with a bouquet of flowers and profess his undying love for you. Then comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage.

Across the break room, Steve arrives and retrieves his lunch from the fridge. Wanda follows your eyes and smirks when she sees the way he’s bent over and how you are obviously checking out his ass. “Don’t.” You warn. “We _work_ together, Wanda!”

“I think he’s in love with you.” She says about Steve, “And I think _he_ is too.” She angles her head to your lap, where the screen of your phone glows dully with your constellation background. With a flick of her hair over her shoulders, Wanda tucks into her meal and hums an innocent tune to herself. Then, as if she couldn’t be any more annoying, she waves to Steve who takes it as an invitation to come sit down on the other side.

You shove your phone as far as it can go in your pocket and turn it on silent.

“What are you doing tonight, Steve?” Wanda asks innocently.

“Uh-- nothing? Maybe clean up a little. I’ve got company this weekend.”

“Mhm. Well, it’s still only Friday. Wanna go out with us? Some girls from marketing want to check out that bar—something Rodeo? Natasha said it was a lot of fun.”

You stuff your face full of salad and chicken because you just told Steve you’d be busy in bed asleep about three hours ago. He looks slightly upset when he realizes he’s caught you in a lie and shrugs. “Nah.” He states, “I think I’ll turn in early_. Tuck myself into bed with a beer_.”

Wanda doesn’t notice the way you shut your eyes and try to swallow the enormous lump of crushed lettuce, praying to God you just choke on it. Steve goes to the microwave to retrieve his food and waves goodbye, likely taking it back to his cubicle. Grumbling, you push your face into your hands as his back disappears out the door and explain to Wanda what an absolute _asshole_ she just made you look like.

Wanda, honest as ever, simply tells you it was your own damn fault.

“Fuck you!” You hiss at her, shoving your chair in and standing up, “And you know what? Fuck your brother, too!”

She only laughs while you beeline out the door after Steve.

He’s eating quinoa and turkey when you find him next to the printer with the door partially closed. “Hey…” You call. “Steve.. C’mon...”

A fork full of grains and carrots goes into his mouth as he shrugs. You tilt your head back because those huge blue eyes are _killing _you. Working with him for eight months has led you to know all the quirks about him you wish you didn’t-- like how his disinterest in replying is directly related to how hurt he is. He’s the softest guy you have probably ever met, despite the way his muscles are nearly bursting out of every dress shirt he wears.

“I don’t know why you lied.” He says plainly, “Just tell me no, like you usually do.”

“Steve!” You lament, “Oh come on… I— you’re being petulant.”

“We used to go out all the time.” He narrows his eyes before tossing the empty container in his hand into a bin close by. “Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something?”

You shift from one foot to the other and lean against the copy machine as he crosses his arms, gazing down at you past the tip of his nose. He steps forward until you can practically feel the heat coming off his body.

What can you say but the truth? You’re afraid to screw up a good thing? Not to mention you’re sort of screwing some_one _on the side?

The copier hums to life and begins to spit out pages full of data. Stupid pie charts and consumer polls, information sorted into columns by age, sex, and race. A pair of heels click down the hallway before Natasha Romanoff’s perfectly curled head arrives, pausing for a second as she looks from you to Steve and then to her papers. Is she trying out for a Pantene commercial? Under the terrible fluorescent office lights, it _still _dazzles that perfect glossy shade of red.

The room falls silent, other than the whirring and clicking of gears and rollers. Natasha waits patiently, smirk growing on her lips the longer you and Steve stand there staring at each other. Finally, she scoops her pages into her arm underneath the frills of her ivory dress shirt and turns around.

“Will you two just fuck and get it over with? We’ve got a pool going and I bet on the end of the month.”

You turn hotter than the machine and push her the hell out the door. Steve scrubs his face with his hands. “God.” He whispers, “Is it that obvious?”

He takes your wide-eyed expression in and fumbles to explain himself, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I mean- I _like_ you. I don’t know, I thought it might have been mutual. We’ve been working together for… almost a year. I figured… start with a date. Maybe without darts. Dinner? Do you eat dinner?”

You are not a blusher, but he is certainly making you blush.

“Yes, Steve.” You sigh, “I eat dinner.”

He steps closer again, until the toe of his shoes touches the tip of your heels. “If it’s too weird, then we’ll scrap it.”

Your eyes sweep over his big shoulders and arms, as if you haven’t been doing that for an inordinate amount of time already.

Maybe the stars are aligning as your heart skips a beat in your chest. It would be the perfect opportunity to find yourself in an actual, meaningful relationship with some semblance of a future rather than clinging onto a drawn-out hookup. You already _know_ Steve. His sweetness, his patience, the way he treats you with respect and how he values your opinion.

You also know he’s not married with children somewhere in Brooklyn. _Yeah_, okay, you think. He’s the one who brought it up. So you tell him a vague little story: there’s a boy you’d been seeing very infrequently, but you’ll be breaking it off.

Steve takes it surprisingly well, more eager to think about the future than the past.

“Hey,” You say, kicking his foot softly, “If this thing goes sideways, Rogers, just remember it was _your_ idea.”

His laughter dazzles you once more, and Steve licks his lips before flicking you in the shoulder, “Alright. How about dinner next week? Bucky’s visiting this weekend, or else I’d ask you out tomorrow.”

You recall Steve mentioning a childhood friend once or twice, but don’t remember anything else about him.

“Oh yeah,” You say as your hand absently returns to the phone in your pocket. “That guy.”

\--

Bucky lands at six-forty and readjusts the bag slung over his shoulder. Airplanes whiz overhead as he makes his way to the pick-up station. This is his first time in eight months that Steve has picked him up, and Bucky is slightly disappointed that this will be how he arrives in San Jose from now on.

It was too good to be true, really. Meeting some girl and fooling around with her on his vacations before he heads over to Steve’s place, but he can’t help thinking about her. From the get-go it’s been nothing but fun and exciting, keeping each other a secret. She still calls him James, and he just calls her baby. Sometimes doll, sometimes dolly, dollface, because their little meet-cute at the bar spawned a million different alternatives to _dame_, and the last time he tried to slide that by her, she twisted his nipple so hard he thought it would fall off.

He’s only seen her at most, five times, but the way she giggles when he takes off her clothes and how her breath stutters against his mouth is something he thinks about frequently when he’s in bed with his hand down his boxers.

But hell, he’s trying to forget her now because just the thought of her makes his blood rush _down_.

Bucky re-reads the last message she sent him-- a goodbye wrapped up in the crinkled decorative paper of an apology. He had text her just this morning with a frisky photo, then a few hours later to surprise her with the fact that he’d be in town. But she only responded with

_Sorry James, I have to cut this off. I’m starting to see someone and I think it might be serious. It’s been fun. Enjoy your future visits, Brooklyn Boy._

_Lucky bastard_, Bucky thinks, mentally flicking off the mysterious outline of whoever she’s dating.

He slides into the passenger seat when Steve pulls up, and they slowly make their way out of the airport, merging carefully when the eight lanes funnel into three. Steve’s humming along to the radio, peppy against the setting sun. With a slight turn of his head, he looks at Bucky who hasn’t said much more than a grunt of a hello.

“What’s eatin’ ya?” Steve asks, flipping on the blinker and taking the next exit. “Your girl?”

“Not my girl.” Bucky mutters, leaning the chair back and breathing a sigh, “She’s got a man now.”

“Well, good. Now you can spend more time with me.” The lopsided grin on Steve’s face makes Bucky smile a little too as he reaches over and grinds his knuckles into Steve’s scalp. They laugh a little before Steve declares, “Let’s go out tonight. My co-workers and drinking at some dive bar, I wanna introduce you to someone.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, turning to regard his friend who’s lit up like Christmas. Steve’s been pining after this co-worker of his for months now, and Bucky’s heard all about it. Apparently, she’s talented, convinced him to do more with his art, stern with him when he’s hard on himself, and _pretty_—because Steve Rogers is a sucker for a pretty girl_. _But she’s always kept it professional. Bucky wonders what’s changed.

“I just... asked her, finally.” Steve admits. Oh, yeah, Bucky thinks. His friend is certainly a glutton for suffering in silence, hoping other people will notice and step up first. That’s how he got stuck filing data for nearly half a year.

“So, are ya gonna tell me about her or what? Since she’s got a fella now.”

The car pulls up into a miraculous parking space. Outside, under the final rays of sunshine people are streaming down the sidewalk, couples with arms hooked around each other, pretty girls in heels and guys looking after them. Friday night in the city, buzzing with life and music.

They walk next to each other, dodging people left and right as Steve leads them into the dark space of a bar, cramped more than sardines in a can. Bucky shuffles sideways to squeeze past a couple already a little _too_ frisky for a public setting. It’s hot and sticky inside, and the smell of fried foods and beer permeates through his clothes.

He doesn’t really get the look of it, either. An entirely metal and southern kind of aesthetic, the kind that reminds him of old bleach-blonde, wrinkly and tanned housewives with rhinestones on the back pockets of their jeans, toting puckered alligator purses. There are string lights over the walls, bumper stickers, and license plates, and all manners of slogans about Texas and being a country girl.

Modelo neon lights. Budlight paraphernalia. The bartender is wearing cowboy boots.

Steve orders a six-dollar pitcher of the house draft and Bucky whistles. Okay, he thinks, for six dollars a pitcher—he _gets_ this place.

“Yee-fuckin’-haw, I guess.” He mutters as Steve tips the mouth of it into two glasses and passes him one.

Steve waves to a few people before pointing over to the group but they take some time to themselves to continue the leftover conversation from the car-ride.

“What’s else is there to tell, man?” Bucky asks as he licks the froth from his upper lip, hoppy bursts of carbonation stinging his tongue. He’s kept her a secret even from Steve, but it’s not like there was much he could say other than, “The girl would screw my brains out and then I’d leave. You know—you've seen me.”

Steve nods along.

“I don’t even know her name. Just called her baby all the time. She’s a goddamn wildcat, knew how to ride like it was her job. Great ass, too.” A shudder passes over him as he thinks of the way she would crush him into the bed and grind until lights burst behind his eyelids.

Across him, Steve lets out a whistle and adjusts his pants. “As you can tell—it's been a while.” He mutters.

Bucky laughs because they share mostly everything else, and he knows Steve’s laments. That incredibly monogamous fucker held out all this time for that special girl. “You got this, man.”

But the last few words of his encouragement gets drowned out by loud cheers and whooping, drawing their attention to a crowd forming behind them. People press up against each other, holding their beer bottles and glasses in the air, cheering and screaming.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky calls to Steve who sits up straight in his chair to get a peek over the tops of everyone’s heads. “I think it’s a mechanical bull?” He replies, shrugging. “Wanna go look?”

“Not really.”

A redhead catches Steve’s eye and sends him a nearly lethal toothy grin, cocking her head over to the crowd. “Go get her, tiger!” She yells, one hand cupped over the edge of her lipstick. Bucky’s grabbed by his arm and dragged along as Steve’s interest peaks.

It’s like a concert mosh pit. Someone splashes their drink next to Bucky’s shoe and he steps out of the way. When they reach the center of the ring around the perimeter of the stage, Bucky’s heart drops because the face he sees—beaming with joy is attached to a body he knows _extremely_ well. Intimately, every single inch. Her hips, gyrating in circles as she holds onto the handles of the mechanical bull—he's seen it. Her hair flurries around her face in circles, moving along to the whipping of her body, adjusting with every jerk of the machine—he's seen that, too.

“There she is.” Steve announces, almost proudly. “Jesus, how is she doin’ that?”

Bucky is wide-eyed, turning back and forth. It’s too much. The laughter from her throat he’s previously shoved himself down. The cheer from the crowd that is deafening in his already ringing ears. Steve’s clapping-- like a trained circus seal.

When the bull bucks for the last time, she leans forward and runs both hands through her hair, flicking it over her shoulders. Then, his girl, ever a gymnast, hops off and gives the crowd a bow, picking up her blazer on the way. Bucky watches her grab that same jacket she had on the first time they met- smooth fabric, sharp shoulders, sleek and black.

It’s gotta be fate. Or destiny. Or maybe some fucked-up circumstance.

Her cheeks are flushed and red, mouth wet with the way her tongue flicks out and licks. To his right, Steve discreetly adjusts his pants again, but Bucky is rock hard. He slides back until he’s disappeared behind his smitten friend, a smirk suddenly growing.

-

Wanda claps you on the back when you step out of the cushions of the ring. Your co-workers stand by with so many questions, but you only wave them off. The secret is that in your high school days you worked at a restaurant with a mechanical bull, and on your breaks you rode the _fuck_ out of it.

At first, upon entering the bar, you were wary and afraid you might throw out your back now that you’re not a spry young thing, but two pitchers in with Natasha and Wanda and you were spitting into your hands and swinging over its seat.

_Yep. _You think, _still got it._

“Hey!” A sandy blonde head sticks out of the crowd two inches above most other people. Steve is grinning ear-to-ear, and you duck because you were _not_ expecting him to witness that. Wanda smacks you on the ass and pushes you forward. “So, you hid _this_ from me for eight months?” He asks, motioning to the bull and then up and down to you.

“Aw, fuck.” You mutter, but can’t help the grin that breaks across your face. “C’mon, Steve... I didn’t think you’d be here.” He hands you his glass, taking a minute to let his gaze follow the tendrils that hang over your eyes and how a sheen layer of sweat has accumulated on your neck. He reaches forward and wipes a bead of sweat from your neck, and you hide behind the glass of amber in your hand, pretending to cool off by pressing it to your forehead.

He’s bolder now that you’ve finally given him the green light.

“I almost forgot--” He turns, looking over his shoulder. “I wanna introduce you to Bucky, my best pal from Brooklyn.”

In your imagination, “Bucky” had been another all-American blonde-haired blue-eyed sweet apple-pie type. Maybe dressed up in a button up, slacks, shiny black belt and all. Someone with wing-tipped shoes who’d call you ma’am. Your heart speeds up a little at the mention of Brooklyn- a place you’ve never been to but somehow haunts you still. The idea of James there, and not here, perhaps.

But then Bucky swivels into view, and the notion that he is at all a reflection of Steve flickers away. If you had something in your mouth, you’d probably choke on it. _He’s_ there, in all his glory, just like you remember: black leather jacket, dark stubble and eyes moving like glacial peaks as he looks you up and down.

His teeth are sharp when he smiles.

“Oh, dollface.” James/Bucky sighs, “I can’t believe you dumped me for _this _guy.”

And you think, as you stare wide-eyed at both men, with Steve now coming to the same conclusion—mouth forming a silent “Oh”, you think that you are so _fucked_.

Maybe your life isn’t a romantic comedy at all, _Wanda_, maybe it’s a terrible porno opening scene because your old lover and your new lover are sharing mischievous grins with each other, flexing their biceps, pulling on their lower lips with their teeth until it stretches white and snaps back plump and red.

Steve turns around to their table.

Bucky cocks his head back, motioning you to follow.


	2. Lucky Number Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. IT'S NASTY.

It feels like an interrogation as the three of you sit at the round high-top. Your legs dangle uselessly, heels kicking against metal beams while Steve and J—_Bucky _do their best impression of the creepy twin girls from Steven King’s _Shining_.

“So, let me get this straight, baby,” Bucky begins. Your eyes flit over to gauge Steve’s reaction, but nothing changes in his demeanor; he looks pleased as punch. “All this time, me an’ you, and... what? We couldn’t figure this out?”

“Fuuuuuuck.” You mutter.

“And _all this time_,” Steve prompts, “You’ve been the mystery girl? The _wildcat_? Wow, those stories...”

“Fuuuuuuuuccccck!” You cry, “Don’t say it so loud!” You are _not _a blusher, but today has been a terrible exception. From across the bar, Wanda sends you a _look_, and you turn to the side to avoid the way she’s asking with her eyes. “God this is awkward...” You stutter when Bucky’s foot finds its way to your ankle, caressing up and down. You jerk your leg in surprise because that is _bold, _god damn it.

Steve Rogers, your big, soft, co-worker of eight months, puts his arm around his _best pal_, and leans forward until they’re both across the table and right up against your cheek. He nudges his nose against your jaw and breathes a hot wind down your neck.

“Is it? Awkward?”

It’s like a light-switch has been flipped. He sucks on his teeth and sits back, waiting for your next move. And you _do_ want to move. Out of this bar, away from the gaze of people who pass by, _far_ away from Natasha Romanoff, who is preemptively counting imaginary dollars in her head.

“So…” Bucky calls to get your attention, “Who are you doing tonight?”

“What?” You croak.

“What are you doing tonight?” He asks again, and you mentally kick yourself for hearing something more perverse.

“Well, so far, I’m finishing my drink and then hopefully sleep off the weirdest glitch in the matrix.” The snark loses its edge as you feel your neck heating to blistering temperatures.

The smiles they share are nearly identical, and even their slight shifts as they sit together make your skin crawl. The _things_ you have done with James flash through your mind in salty, sweaty, damp, gasping, clawing images. Him, hooking his fingers in your mouth. You, pressed up against a damn _window_, thankfully, that only looks out into an empty field. Open palms, smacking; red tongues, licking damn near everything; eyes rolling back.

And then Steve replaces him in your mind, now that they are both here, and you see your co-worker-slash-very-new-date undoing you in all the same ways.

You swallow. They trace the motions of your throat with their eyes.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks, but it’s not really a question at all- and he knows your answer already.

“Yep.” James grins. “I’ll ride with you, kitten. We have a little catching up to do.”

You bite down on your cheek, slide your purse over your shoulder and your ass from the chair. Steve walks ahead, glancing back with a smile when Bucky runs his hand through your hair, giving a tug at the base of your neck. “Babygirl, mechanical bull or not, bring your A-game.”

The engine rumbles to life, beeping slightly before it quiets when both seatbelts get crossed and clicked in. Jam—_Bucky_—goddamn it, props his elbow against the door frame, knuckles pressed to the back of his head before he turns to look at you. He’s doing this on purpose, to meet your gaze briefly as you turn around and reverse the car out from the lot. 

He’s staring silently, smirk plastered on his face as he watches you turn back around and glare at the road ahead. There’s only the sound of the blinker ticking. When you move to push the radio on, he shoves his finger up to the button and switches it off.

“Nope.” He says.

“What the fuck, dude.”

“You gotta talk to me, baby. Tell me what you’re thinking right now—‘bout this?”

You chew on your lip and focus on the pressure of your foot on the pedal. Butterflies build a whirlwind inside of your tummy when he places his hand on your thigh. It’s very possible that if you hadn’t already been thinking about the way you were driving, you would have crashed.

“Okay.” You mutter, “Your name is _Bucky_?”

“Nickname.”

“Huh. What about Bucko?”

“No.”

“Buckaroo?”

“Stop.”

He laughs and pinches the meat of your thigh, “Jesus, can’t take you anywhere.”

The playful conversation loosens the tension from your tummy a little and you take a shy glance just for a second. It’s completely against your nature with him, to be anything but _to the point_. The fact that he is in your car right now and not against a couch or the floor or writhing naked in a bathtub dislodges the very nature of your understanding of him.

And Steve, sucking on his teeth, it sends chills up your spine.

“I’m a little nervous.” You admit.

“First time?” He teases, “Promise we’ll go easy on ya.”

With a roll of your eyes, you reach over and flick him in the ear, “_Not _my first time, but I do _like_—and _work_ with Steve. And I’m not trying to fuck it up. And what the hell, James, did the two of you spit-roast a lot of girls together in Brooklyn or what? He seems surprisingly chill with this.”

“Pfft. Steve’s probably only shown you that good ol’ American boy face, huh? Sly fuck, he knows what works. Rogers is a lot of things— prude not being one of them.” 

It makes you think twice, “What is he, a serial killer?”

He laughs, “Fuck, girl. I missed you.” And the comment makes you frown.

“You’re not allowed to miss me. This isn’t—like, this isn’t a _thing_. You—you’re just in town, like always. I’m gonna date your best friend, James.”

Leaning your foot on the break, you pull into the parking spot in front of Steve’s duplex where he stands propped against the hood of his car patiently. Releasing your grip on the clutch, you send another look over and sigh, “Is this completely fucked or not?”

Behind his head, Steve yanks the door open, “You guys comin’ in?”

The conversation gets put on hold as you follow the two of them inside.

It’s not the first time you’ve been in here because Steve had a housewarming party when he first moved in for months ago and gave you the whole tour. Nice roomy living space, hard wood and tile for the kitchen. Quaint upstairs with two rooms, one for him, another as a guest room/office space with a pull out in the event that he has a guest—mostly it had been his best friend from Brooklyn.

You remember as you wandered around upstairs with him that there was a nondescript black bottle on the end table where his laptop sat, and you had jokingly ribbed him about fucking girls in the _guest bedroom_. He had turned bright pink, threw it in a drawer and muttered something about not ruining his own perfectly clean sheets and refused to look at you again the whole night.

Weird how that memory is the one to come up now.

Steve grabs two beers from the fridge and hands one to Bucky.

“You want wine?” He calls from the kitchen.

“No,” You reply, “I mean, should we be drinking? Like, for the sake of my conscience should we be like, y’know, lucid?”

Steve cocks his head at you before pausing and walking over to where you stand nervously in the living room, “You okay?” He sets his beer down and reaches out to touch you but pull away at the last minute.

“Hey. This is … all up to you. I’m more than happy to shoot the shit with beers. Buck will behave.”

You laugh, because Bucky looks like he has never behaved in his life and when you turn to look at him, his expression borders on the cuff of offended as he pretends to be interested in the T.V.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to calling him Bucky.” You say, stealing Steve’s beer and taking a swig. For whatever reason, knowing that he will still treat you the exact same as he has before he knew these intimate things allows your shoulder to relax and your heart to soften. You settle in next to James.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can call him that he’d be against.” Steve grins, watching your shoulder touch Bucky’s.

“Well,” your chin tips down to touch your shoulder, nose barely caressing Bucky’s hair. “He doesn’t like Jim-Jam or Bucko…”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “I’m right here, you know.”

He turns to look at you, red lipped and button nose like he remembers, mischievous glint in your eye like the first night you asked him over. Bucky places his hand on the back of your neck and leans in deliberately slow- flickering a glance over to where Steve is still attached to his seat with an amused smirk.

Part of Bucky thinks he should ask if this is okay, now that it’s actually happening with Steve’s girl—his girl—whatever you are. But another part of him thinks, with what he knows about you, you’re not quite anyone’s girl.

He goes for it.

You return his kiss with a blistering one, tongue and teeth, and then there are flashes of limbs and skin as the two of you undress each other enthusiastically. _This is more like it_, more familiar to the nights at your apartment, without any pretense or nerves.

You lean back until you’re flush against the couch, take Bucky along with you and he happily obliges, grinning when you moan. His knee dives between your thighs and presses against your clit until you are arching up into him. “Open up for me, baby.”

The two of you know each other so intimately that this feels like a walk in the park. Your anxiety flits away until you crane your neck back and catch sight of Steve. Your heart pounds again under his gaze—all darkness and need. But he doesn’t move, and it almost _scares_ you.

Bucky doesn’t seem to give a shit either way, peeling off your underwear and shoving two fingers inside where they quickly get sluiced up.

“Alright, Stevie, stop being so mysterious.” He teases before his mouth finds your clit. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“To the guest room?” You ask playfully, looking back at Steve upside down before Bucky’s teeth on your thigh makes you yelp. Steve breaks out into a grin and runs his hand through his hair, standing up.

The tent in his pants looks like it _hurts_. “Nah.” He says, already turned around, “I’ll show you my bedroom this time.”

-

Your knees hit the ground even before Steve gets a chance to slip his pants off. Bucky is thrusting himself into your mouth, cock pushing against the back of your throat until you gag.

“Fuck yes,” He hisses, “I’ve fucking missed you.”

One eye opens as you try to look up, but Bucky is unyielding, fisting your hair up into his hand and twisting until it hurts.

“Jesus— Easy, Buck!” Steve scolds, stepping out of his jeans and shrugging his shirt over his head. You pull away with a loud gasp, saliva dripping down your chin and gaze at Steve’s body.

Holy shit. Holy _shit_. Somebody mail ordered him from a factory. He is so hot it’s _unreal_. His arms are enormous, his chest is bulging, waist tapered down to his hips, a gorgeous v-line running straight to —

“Eyes on the prize, babygirl.” Bucky draws your attention back to him with a poke of his cock to your cheek. You swat him away playfully, licking your kiss-stung lips at the sight of Steve’s hand— or rather, what’s in it.

He is huge and thick. Dripping cum.

“You hid _this_ from me for eight months?” You ask slyly, echoing his sentiment from earlier in the evening. Steve grins at you, eyes twinkling in the dark as he steps forward stroking himself. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb trailing its way into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“I planned on showing you at least five months ago— but, y’know— you were set on your other man. Coulda had it.”

Bucky laughs to your right. “Open up, kitten.”

They’ve certainly had some experience with threesomes, both maneuvering too casually to be new at this. When Bucky pulls himself away from your mouth, Steve is a split second behind, shoving in. You blink the stinging away from your eyes. Your esophagus is going to be _messed up_ tomorrow.

One last time, Steve eases his way into your throat, gripping himself and slides down until your eyes roll back. Your tongue is crushed between your teeth and his cock and that’s it. That’s how you’re going to die. It’s been fantastic.

“Goddamn.” Bucky purrs, “That is so fucking hot.”

Steve is out of your throat, pulling you up to your feet and throwing you over his shoulder. Your tummy flutters at the way he picked you up so easily until a sharp smack lands on your ass. Steve’s hand leaves a perfect red imprint— all five giant fingers splayed.

Your cry is muffled by Bucky’s mouth on yours as he trails behind. Upon parting, Steve tosses you on the bed. “Spread ‘em for me. Lemme eat your pussy.”

“Jesus, dude.” You murmur while he crawls forward, parting your knees when you’re too slow for his liking, “What the hell, Rogers.”

_What the hell_, your brain is trying to cling onto some thread of logic here while Steve applies sweet kitten licks up your legs, between your thighs, and then slowly, over the slit that his best friend had been just ten minutes ago downstairs. “Y-You talk to your mother with that mouth?”

One of his hands reaches up and slaps you right across a breast. _This is your co-worker_, you think, as the shock travels all over your body, making your toes curl. This is your _new boyfriend_. You can feel him smiling as he nuzzles his nose against your inner thigh. His finger trails up and down your pussy, spreading your juices up to your clit where he begins to swirl his tongue around in circles.

He told Bucky to _go easy_—what! Steve is anything but _easy_. Your bottom still stings with the brand of his palm.

Bucky plops down next to you with a smug look on his face. “Havin’ fun, gorgeous? Your new man’s not bad, huh?” Steve slips two fingers in and twists them until you groan.

“Use your words.” Bucky grips your face in his hands, planting a sloppy kiss onto your mouth, tongue licking the sweat from your chin. At the same time, Steve is sucking lewdly on your pussy, shoving his fingers so deeply that you cry out with a crash of your sudden orgasm.

It’s too much. You are distraught with overstimulation.

But neither of them are finished; just as the heat is beginning to settle, Steve is digging into the end table and producing two condoms, throwing one into Bucky’s hand.

“Uh- ha, I’m- gonna need a breather, guys.” You stutter as Steve deftly slides the rubber on and moves to the foot of the bed. Bucky gives you an incredulous look.

“Sweetheart. You can try to fool Stevie, but I know ya.” You gulp, “Your _fourth_ one is always the best. Until your fifth.” He rolls his eyes one side to the other, as if he’s deep in thought. _Motherfucker_, you think. “Until your sixth. And then seventh.”

Steve is laughing as he stands, grabbing your ankles and tugging you down until your legs swing over the edge. “Seventh?” He asks.

“Oh, the _seventh_…” Bucky grins, throwing one leg over your chest, caging your shoulders in with his knees until he’s hovering over your mouth again. “The seventh one is right before she passes out.”

“That was _one_ time!” You shriek, pinching him, “Stop giving away all my secrets!”

The complaint dies in your throat when Steve’s hand squeezes your hip. Behind Bucky, he is settling himself into position, pulling your thighs until you’re slipping down and your legs are hitched to his arms. Then, he grabs your ass firmly with two hands and pokes your entrance with his cock.

“You ready for it?”

Bucky repositions himself too, looking back over his shoulder at Steve before turning his gaze back to you. Your mouth opens, letting him slide in the same time Steve does. Your eyes flutter with each stroke of Steve’s length, jaw limp in pleasure, letting Bucky do as he pleases to your throat.

“How is it?”

“Fuckin good.” Steve grunts. His compliment goes straight into you with a thrust and your tummy flutters, you clench reflexively around him. Bucky grins and pats your cheek almost lovingly. Steve fists himself and slides out until he’s prodding you with the head again. It stretches you open once more when he pushes in, making you moan.

You are boneless beneath them, overtaken with incredible pleasure.

Steve can’t get enough of the noises you are making. He doesn’t let up the teasing until you kick him impatiently with your little feet.

He rubs you with his hand, smearing fluid before he lands a single smack on your clit in retaliation. Bucky pulls away, too, and lies down on your left. Steve’s tongue replaces his hand and traces a path from your hole to your clit and back down again.

“Buck?” He asks, voice vibrating against your cunt. The invitation is snatched quickly as Bucky slides his condom on. Steve licks you again, sighing contentedly at your taste.

Bucky hoists you up until you’re on your knees and facing him. In one fluid motion, he is filling you in the same space Steve had just left. Behind you, Steve fingers into your mouth, swirling the saliva under your tongue until they’re coated with it.

It’s nasty. It is so damn filthy. Your body is quivering when he uses the same wet fingers to rub around the skin being stretched by Bucky. _James_ is dirty as fuck, but you still can’t quite comprehend that Steve—sweet fucking Steve is on the same level.

You cry out when he shoves a finger inside, crammed up into the tight space where Bucky is thrusting slowly.

“Oh, fuck!” Your eyes squeeze shut but Bucky’s hand is gripping your jaw.

“Look at me, darlin’. I wanna see you lookin’ at me.”

He tilts your head up and runs a stripe from the dip between your collarbone to your chin.

“That’s it, baby.” Steve croons, “You like that, huh? I can feel you squeezing us. You want one more?”

“I can't!” You shriek, “Oh god, I _can’t!” _Bucky licks his lips as he holds your face still, watching your mouth fall open and panting with interest. He loves the way your eyes can’t seem to focus, the way your tongue lies heavy in your mouth, the way you the hide from the pleasure, but he _knows_ you’re excited.

“Sure, you can, honey. We’ll get you nice and wet for it.” Steve doesn’t wait for a response and pushes another finger in. You nearly scream from the pleasure of it all, mingled with a pinch of pain. They move inside you together, Bucky in long strokes and Steve in quick pumps.

Your second orgasm is a crashing tidal wave, your walls fluttering like frantic hummingbird wings as a gushing soak drenches both of them. Your body jerks forward, caught by Bucky’s hands around your waist. He stills, letting you ride it out.

“You never told me she was a squirter.” Steve marvels.

“It’s never happened before.”

You tumble, draping your exhausted body over Bucky, letting him hold you.

“Let’s go again.” Steve palms your ass. “I want you on me.”

And then he’s there, filling up the slick spot between your legs. You already feel raw but a sudden heat sweeps through when Steve pulls you backwards until you’re both on your backs and exposed, thrusting hard and fast as you clamber to gain some footing. Your arms are over his, on your palms and clenching the sheets.

Bucky sits against the headboard, stroking himself as he watches. “Fuck yes. You’re takin’ it so good.”

A new thrill punches the air out of your lungs the same time Steve slams back in. Bucky’s eyes trace down the line of your body from your panting open mouth to your breasts bouncing to the stretch of pink skin gripping Steve’s cock. The exposure blooms gooseflesh down your arms and back. 

“You like Bucky watching?” He can feel it— the way you grip him harder when Bucky smirks.

Steve holds onto your hipbones, angles you forward just slightly, making a show for Bucky but the sudden new position is hitting even deeper than before and you gasp in stuttering breaths. Your ass slaps against his pelvis in rhythmic smacks. Bucky watches with rapt interest, biting on his lip and licking the edges of his mouth as he pumps himself faster.

He’s got a sly little look in his eye as he peels the condom off. It slaps against his wrist as it stretches and contracts, falling away. His cock is bright pink and angry, head throbbing on the verge of release.

“You want it?”

“Y-yeah.” You pant, eyes fixed on his, “I want it. I want it so bad.”

“Stick your tongue out, princess. Show me how much.”

Steve slaps your ass three times in quick succession and you can hardly register the sting because Bucky is crawling forward and standing up on the mattress. Your tongue slowly drops, tip nearly touching your chin as your head follows up. Bucky gets a look straight down your throat and groans.

“You want my cum?”

You nod obediently.

“You missed it?”

Steve chuckles and smacks your ass again. His pace is nearly brutal now, driving into you so fast and hard your eyes well up with tears. It doesn’t feel like you’ll reach the peak—it's felt like you’ve been continuously on the peak for the last five minutes. Your brain is completely fried and blissed out. You can only gasp in clipped short breaths as the air continuously gets punched out of your lungs.

Bucky bites his lip, eyes fixed on the way Steve’s cock spreads your cunt. The way your pussy is cherry from their punishment— or, as Bucky would put it, their _affection._

He smirks.

“Wish you could see her, Stevie. Such a good girl, aren’t you? You love taking all of him, don’t you?”

Bucky could be speaking gibberish and you would still nod along, falling apart as you stutter and plead, begging for him. _I want it, I want it, I wantitwantitneeditneedyou._

Three more strokes, knuckles of his flesh hand turning nearly white as he fists himself, and Bucky releases thick white ropes over your chest and neck, a few droplets landing on your cheek and lips.

God damn. It’s just like you remember—salty and sweet, musky in that special way that’s unique to just him.

With a gasp, he falls backwards onto the mattress, hard cock still in his palm as he continues to watch. Steve tugs you down, pulls your limp body off and then he’s on top, placing your feet over his shoulders.

His blue eyes take in the sight of you covered in Bucky’s cum. Steve wipes a glob from your chin, sticks his finger in your mouth and makes you eat it. Two more fingers shove themselves inside and he grips hard onto your jaw the same time he drives himself in.

“Such a pretty girl.” He pants, “Pretty girl with Bucky’s cum all over you.”

“I want you, too.” You gasp, hand reaching down to grip his cock. The thin plastic of the condom rolls off with your touch, and you throw it to the side. “I want you.”

“Yeah? Get on your knees.”

It’s immediate; your knees hit the ground again for the second time, your face tilted up, entire body shuddering with anticipation for him. Bucky pulls your hair, tugs your head back and Steve plunges in.

“Tell him you like it.” Tears well up in your eyes as Steve fucks your throat. There’s no space for any noise other than the squelching sounds of his cock driving into your mouth. “Try, baby. Tell him you love his cock.”

Not even muffles have room to escape. He doesn’t relent, and Bucky’s flesh hand goes around your neck, feeling the way Steve slides in and out. He even drags the length of his dick over your cheek, catching trails of Bucky in the process before returning to your mouth.

Steve’s eyes roll back as he laughs, “Fuck yes.”

Bucky takes the opportunity to sit you up, maneuvering behind you and sliding back into your cunt. He’s hard again from watching the show Steve’s put on and he’s erect now with a goddamn vengeance. You feel absolutely ruined for other men. It’s unbelievable, the way they’ve seared their touch into your body and brain. And yeah if you had a soul or whatever, probably that too.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Steve grips his slick cock, that heavy thing you admire as he strokes, your spit bubbling viscous in his hand.

Everything is moving too fast— Steve’s hand finding its way in your hair, Bucky driving into you from behind, even Steve’s eyes, half-lidded but so intense and concentrated on the way your chest rises and falls.

“Come on, Steve.” You chant, “I need it.”

“You wanna be covered, baby?” Bucky growls, “You want Steve’s cum all over you, too?”

“Oh my god. Yes. Yes.”

“You gonna clean yourself up for us? Gonna eat it all?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be good for you, I promise.”

“Didja heat that, Stevie? Our girl’s gonna be good for ya.”

Steve watches Bucky’s prosthetic vice grip your side while his other hand snakes onto your abdomen, pushing his own cum up until he’s shoving a handful into your mouth, leaving a sticky path over your neck in its wake.

Your tongue eagerly licks it off, keeping eye contact with him the entire time.

It sends him over the edge and seeing him shudder sends you over _yours_. You break open, crying out pitifully and throwing your head back onto Bucky’s shoulder.

It might not be the seventh time, but it sure feels like it. Your body trembles against Bucky’s torso as Steve spills creamy lines onto your chest. Bucky sucks on your neck, murmurs praise into your ear, calls you _sweetheart, darling, good fucking girl._ He keeps himself inside, nestled comfortably deep.

It might not be your _seventh_, but you’re likely going to faint if he doesn’t stop whispering so intensely. He drags another one out, frighteningly so, with slow movements, rubbing the walls of you sweetly, letting you almost forget how torn open they’ve made you. Your toes curl as you go limp again for the umpteenth time, pliant against Bucky and catching your breath.

Steve leans over, inspecting the way you lick your dry lips. Bucky lands a soft barely-there kiss to the lobe of your ear and they wipe the sweat from your neck and brow away.

“You okay?” Bucky whispers, sending chills down your spine, “Need to rest, darlin’?”

“Need to clean up first.” Steve suggests as he plods away into the bathroom. The shower is turned on and Bucky smooths your hair away from your neck. It takes some effort to stand up because your legs aren’t quite working right, and with every step you can feel how swollen you are between your thighs.

They kiss you in the shower. Let you lean on them and drape your arms over their shoulders. They smooth soap over your body, play with the tender skin with teasing fingertips and chuckle when you swat them away. “No more. Please. I’m already dead.”

In bed, you settle in between them, a little surprised that it feels so easy—as if it’s normal.

“You guys do this a lot?” You mumble sleepily as Steve pulls the cover up over your chest. Bucky shrugs to your left.

“Mmm…once or twice.”

“Never been like this, though.” Steve comments.

Steve runs a hand up your abdomen, pulls you until you’re facing him and Bucky slides closer to spoon you. Their hands are like anchors on your side, Steve’s palm underneath Bucky’s grasp and one of them is tapping against the other.

Three nude bodies, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

You’re floating off, seconds away from shutting down completely. There are thoughts fluttering about your brain—Brooklyn boys, affectionate, old friends, holding hands. The questions you have can wait until the morning, probably after another round where they fuck you into oblivion.

“This is nice.” Bucky’s voice. You think. Not really sure. They sound almost exactly alike in the darkness.

“Well, pal.” A pause. It’s so quiet now. With a soft groan and your lips pressed to Steve’s neck, you slip away. The last words you hear are low and playful, with just a tiny edge of a challenge, “Maybe it’s time you move to California.”

Somewhere in the chilled bedroom of her perfectly polished apartment, and of course it would be, it’s just like her, Natasha Romanoff smirks as she counts a heavy stack of bills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (wipes sweat) Oh lawd. Let me know what you think, I am ... in need of a shower.

**Author's Note:**

> You: Hey, heli0s-- why aren't you updating your other fics????  
Me: (slinks away into the darkness, crying)
> 
> Let me know what you think! This one has the least amount of plot out of all my writings.... It's mostly just humping. lol. xx


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